Castlevania Covenant of the Apostates
by Sorcerer's Familiar
Summary: Desolated by loss, a man embraces the night and through a dark concordance, sets the wheel of a terrible history into irrevocable motion.


I do not own Castlevania in any format or any of its related characters or copyrights. These are the property of Konami and the relevant corporate bodies.

Castlevania

Covenant of the Apostates

Grief, pain and loss. For many of us, these are but terrible abstractions used to describe distant emotions experienced by others, but to those that have lost someone they love; to those that know their deep and abiding power, these become almost unbearable realities with a terrible new knowledge; sorrow cannot understand time and time cannot appreciate sorrow.

In this place, a man finds repose among shadows. For almost a year, he has found both solitude and anguish within the walls of this chamber; a place that resonates with memories of times now gone. The room itself is distinguished by a door facing the bed leading out onto a balcony; the curtain partially covering it stroked gently by a faint breeze from outside. Adjacent to the bed is a ornate table upon which the only source of illumination casts long shadows across the chamber and its sole occupant; the candle's spilled wax congealing on the steel holder a testament to long, restless hours of reflection. The room is furnished as befitting a person of noble lineage and position while the figure lying beneath the quilts turns to face the other, empty half of the bed. Spilling ebony locks over his pillow, he casts weary eyes to the opposite one and tries to recall the precious figure that once met his gaze with warm eyes the colour of sapphire. Even now, he can still detect a vestige of her presence; the quilt and pillows still retaining the scent of her long golden locks that seemed to capture the essence of the sun in their vibrancy. Closing his eyes, he can remember a time when his hand, slipping under the sheets, would meet her's and a soft embrace. The swell of her hips as they dip into her waist, the gentle contours of her ribs leading to the soft warmth of her breasts and the slope of her neck. The face that once met his with a smile, framed by golden locks and gifted with warm eyes. His fingers, slightly trembling, advance; wishing that they might, by some rare miracle, meet the warm contours of a familiar face. His fingers descend and the illusion crumbles; the vacancy of the sheets a horrible testament to death's dominion. Opening his eyes, his arm outstretched, he gently runs a hand over the pillow as a wistful expression passes over his features. Lingering for a few moments before withdrawing it, his gaze focused where she once slept, he still questions why. In past months, tears would have stained his cheeks as reflection was subsumed by a wave of grief and impudent anger at the tragedy. But now his tears have turned to resentment as he questions, with growing resolve, the forces that spirited his love from this world. With a sigh he turns once again to face the opposite wall and the flickering candle; a soul once so devout, now consumed with loss, anger and indignation. Heavy eyes glance towards the brilliance at the heart of shadow and his gaze rises further to the wall; a confirmation of faith catching the light in tones of gold and red. The icon, a gift on their wedding day from Elisabetha's father, hangs in the centre of the wall. A gold border surrounds a depiction of the crucifixion; the last moments of Christ witnessed by two others. The figure of centurion Longinus, clasping the spear that would become legend, is at the bottom right; his weapon having just pierced the heart and wet with blood. The other figure on the left is the Virgin Mary, her hands lifted to her son. Christ's face is turned towards her; the contours of his visage not agonised or angered but sorrowful in its golden hallow. This hallowed scene, given the faintest animation by the bright though flickering light, transfixes his gaze from the bed. From here, he begins to question; begins to consider the meaning of his endeavours to this point.

"Hast thou forsaken me, my lord?" He silently ponders. "Hast thou forsaken your servant; a man who has orchestrated the deaths of thousands in the name of your most holy church? Did I not conceive the destruction of village, town and castle; man, woman and child at the behest of my country and in your name? Were these acts not committed to advance your most hallowed kingdom on Earth?...and ….and yet I am forsaken. What transgression, what crime did I commit to incur the wrath of your most divine father? My precious, precious Elisabetha was innocent of this world and yet she is taken; her eyes still and her skin faded by Uriel's touch. Please, why hast thou forsaken me to despair; why was the beautiful light that stirred my soul and gave my mind conviction to conceive your victories taken?"

To these silent questions there was only silence; the only movement that of the candle as it danced in the nights breeze. No angels deemed to answer his questions, no saints afforded him a vision to alleviate his sorrowful heart and the figure to whom he directed his queries remained, as always, still upon the wall; his face turned from the knight's weary, afflicted visage. This silence echoed the desolation within, though this evening was seemingly different than the nights of the past; these moment's invoked sensations he never felt, or believed he would actively ponder. His mind seemed to haemorrhage anger, loathing and cold betrayal as he sat up to massage his temple. It was there, diamond blue eyes beholding the Icon fully, that something almost imperceptible stirred in the dark recesses of his soul. With this, he continued his silent scrutiny of heaven's actions.

"To thy hallowed father, I prayed for her on the sun's rise and under the pale light of the moon. I desired that my actions would allow you to prevail on the battle field and that you would find her blessed. Though, were my desires too great to merit your touch; was she, of all your creatures that walk upon the earth, unworthy of such things? Please, heavenly father and creator of all the stars that doth dwell in thy kingdom, why was she taken from this world; why have I been left to this slow, implacable horror that greets me every waking moment? As children, we entered your church with your name on our lips. We sang to the glory of the blessed trinity; the hosts of your kingdom, your son and his sufferings for our sins; we entered into your covenant; we partook of the blood and body of your son, we accepted his love and now I am overcome by loss that shatters my soul. Blessed son of the almighty, did I not repent the actions I conceived in faith to you; I prayed for her in thy name and yet she was taken. Am I forsaken by you, you who forgave all in thy suffering, and yet I am not forgiven? I am banished from your light and yet I served you faithfully through war and doubt. The Holy Spirit, the son who spilled his blood into the earth and the god who fashioned creation; you have betrayed me!"

His face wet with the first tears, he turns now profoundly odious eyes from the Icon; a mind and soul wrought with a great and terrible pain. In these moments of fevered contemplation, a whisp of memory rises as his eyes catch the lance with its crimson tip and the wet scarlet that trickles from the side of the son.

"……….as the soldier pierced his side there came out blood and water……"

"……came out blood and water…."

"……blood and water….."

"…..blood……."

The thought elicits a sudden reaction within as his eyes snap open, as if transfixed by some unseen sight. In the recesses of his mind a solution has formed, like a drop of ink in still water, it reaches out, distends and spreads before completely diffusing. This new thought has crystallised into a dark brilliance and, the figure now sitting, reflects silently; his eyes betraying a new and terrible purpose.

---------------------------------------------

The darkness is disturbed by a faint, flickering brilliance as a robed figure passes silently through the empty halls of his home. His passage is without incident, the pale hand clasping the candle holder still while the other curls around a long heavy robe which trails behind him like a living ghost. His destination is finally met when he descends into the cellar where, with barely a moment's consideration, he advances into the cold shadows. The tiny flame now illuminates a door way built into the far wall and with familiar motions delves into the recesses of his garments. A long key is produced and inserted; the acute sound of metal grinding against mental and the squeal of hinges is heard before the figure vanishes inwards and the door is locked once again. Descending further, another door is unlocked as he enters a secret place where the knowledge of past centuries lies reclined in chests, drawers and shelves. This scholarly enclave held in the earth's bosom reflects a time when such disciplines were more warmly accommodated, but now serves as a sanctuary against the violence and fervour of those who believe they serve God. Placing the candle down on the rooms sole table, he turns to the racks of parchment; pale fingers lovingly dancing across ancient paper and scroll as he begins his search. Time is only marked by the gradual erosion of the light, its passing oblivious to him as arcane documents begin to accumulate on the table and the scholar continues his search for something, a ripple on the edge of probability, he believes may exist here amidst faded Latin, Cyrillic and Magyar. The light has begun to sputter and fade when acute eyes are once again transfixed on a piece of parchment and its script; a faint flutter of vindication narrowing dark eyes as he discovers what he has sought on these long, restless hours.

---------------------------------------------

In a large chamber close by, he stands back and observes the fruit of meticulous preparation. Around him a circle has been drawn in chalk with arcane symbols and a large pentacle lined with incantations. At the five points stand candle holders, their respective brilliance now the only source of illumination in the high vaulted chamber. Reflecting upon this, he appreciates the gravity of his intentions and the consequence; if but one symbol is incomplete or broken, the ritual may lead to his destruction. This, as yet, cold abstraction is weighed against his own conviction and designs that now necessitate this most dangerous of undertakings. He waits but for a moment before drawing breath, the sound wet and sharp in empty chamber, then with deliberate motions, he begins. Retrieving a long dagger from his robes, he opens his left hand and firmly presses the blade across his palm. With one quick motion the blade withdraws and incises deeply into his flesh. He grimaces before closing his hand slightly and through narrowed eyes watches as blood seeps forth in a steady stream. The liquid, rich and dark in the candle light, trickles to the floor while he returns the dagger and stoops to a chalice at his feet. Quickly raising the vessel beneath his wounded flesh, blood begins accumulate as he strains to ensure enough is given; the first beads perspiration wetting his pale brow. After long moments of silent exertion, he lowers his wounded hand, feeling the wetness drop from fingertips to the floor, and observes the fruit of his veins. Satisfied, he raises the chalice and speaks in clear Latin to the darkness, the incantation a greeting to the unseen powers of the world, then partakes of the liquid. Imbibing a quantity, he then draws back and strikes out with the vessel; the remaining blood launched forth before it suddenly vanishes in a flash of blue light. Lowering the empty container, he feels with a flicker of anticipation the air seemingly growing denser; a palpable feeling of energy coming forth. Around, the walls, ceiling and floor outside the circle are lost to a shadow that seeps from everywhere until only fathomless darkness exists outside his magical ward. The air grows steadily colder until his breath takes shape before him; any further thoughts interrupted as a great wind tears through the void, forcing the scholar to raise his arm against the inexplicable storm. The tempest calms quickly, leaving him in absolute darkness with gasping breath. Rising gradually, his eyes dart to the sudden ignition of the candles; intrigue broken as pain resurges through his hand. A slight groan escaping his lips, he watches as the deep wound closes with no evidence of an injury ever being there. The success of the spell now apparent, his gaze is drawn outside the circle as something stirs then takes shape in long robes topped with a cowl. The phantasm's hands are devoid of flesh as they lie by its side; the face almost submerged in shadow save for its lipless and constant grin. Eyes like crimson stars peer at the mortal from under the shadowy mantle and a voice, sterile, cold but with an indelible rasp reaches out to him in the now luminous circle.

"With such sorcery, who summons me to this place?..." The mortal's countenance is momentary frozen; eyes entranced by the fruit of such long labour, though he rights himself and bows slightly to the apparition.

"You honour me greatly in your presence spirit, for this you have my gratitude."

"Salutation?...ah, yes. Your ward tells of much reflection, but even one such as you courts folly in summoning me alone."

"It is by the very nature of this that I am alone, but it is with an understanding of my nature that I have summoned you here."

"And……..what is this nature? For what purpose do I appear? Speak..."

"After…..after so long in darkness, despair having rend my soul and with horror as a consort, I understand that I have changed irrevocably. That which I loved faded from the world; her body undone by disease and yet she, of all creatures, was innocent. That which I endeavoured for has betrayed me and in my solitude, bereft of her, I have become an apostate." Beneath the cowl, the crimson lights dim slightly, as if the spirit is reflecting upon his words.

"Yes…….Mathias Cronquvist….and I suspect I know why you have persevered in this; your beloved…..Elisabetha?" At the mention of her name a silent agony blooms in his soul and the mortal grimaces. Turning slightly, he answers Death.

"Yes. The light of my very soul was stolen away; extinguished by heavens apathy and God's betrayal. It is this that inspired me, after so long, to seek you out."

"And yet you bear me no ill will? Though she departed from the world, your beloved abides in his kingdom; embraced by both Seraphim and Cherub……does that not comfort you?"

"It comforts me greatly, but the depth of this betrayal, his tyranny and inequity against those who have not lifted word nor sword to another human being is abhorrent. I can no longer countenance this and have conceived a means of defiance; a means in which you, Death…no…no…Uriel are vital."

"…….And, pray tell, why is my power vital to your machinations when you already wield such influence, both known and unknown?"

"Of all the powers that abide in the world, you most closely would understand the measure of defiance that I would create. You and I, Uriel, are not so diverse in that we are both apostates from his influence; we are both much more that what we once were in his kingdom…." He can feel the scrutiny of Death's gaze as it peers into his eyes, as if the spectre's mythical scythe is being gently run across the surface of his soul. After a moment of silence, the spirit answers.

"I may know of which you speak, but what is this measure of defiance you have conceived?..." Before him, the mortal prepares to divulge his plan and set the wheel of vengeance in motion. He speaks, the words falling from his lips like ebony diamonds; each dark and brilliant but each facet implies a legion of horrors. The words finish, their gravity still resonating in the flickering twilight of the vaulted chamber. The weighty silence that follows is broken by the sound of derision, like a sword being run over stone.

"What madness abides in the heart of humanity……you presume to conjure me forth for what? To speak of petty contrivances and illusions of vengeance! Heed my warning, Mathias Cronquvist, do not think me a lesser sprit called forth to indulge in whimsical and impudent discourse!..." Death's incredulity, strangely, seems to hold little for the mortal. There is a slight apprehension but not fear. The man's eyes narrow with a flicker of a greater conviction.

"You think me impudent? Each part is considered and weighed with great caution. The sum of this is based on reasoned calculation of the parties involved, not bloody passions……success will present itself to us at the defeat of eternal night's master."

"Is this not hubris, sorcerer?…………..the lord of the vampire invites folly through his own appetites, but the bearer of the ebony stone is not to be underestimated and even if undone, you lack the means to collect what you desire, though if you fail………you know what will follow; your peers, family, friends, loved ones will turn on you like a pack of wolves and rend you asunder with fire and sword." The mortal knows of the consequence which his plan may bring. Though public displays of execution have been few recently, the prospect of burning at the stake is the penalty for perceived transgressions against God. A lingering memory of lesser fates ripples in mind as he recalls one such incident a few years ago. In a village not far from the Mures river, a young woman had been accused of witchcraft despite her virtuous nature. The sentence inflicted upon her had been to forsake burning in favour of exile; a sentence which saw her taken far into the wilderness and left to succumb in winters embrace. This loathsome fate was an apparent concession to her popularity in the village, though the judgement passed on him would be particularly vile if he was discovered. This fear flickers then subsides as he prepares to give evidence of his resolve. With a deliberate gesture, he reaches into his robe and removes a small shape. Unfolding his fingers around it, the faint light turns a turgid red to scarlet as the token of his will is revealed. Beneath the mantle, Uriel's gaze is drawn inexorably to it, his eyes flaring with recognition as a sudden wind ruffles his robes and streaks the candles fire. The silence that follows is pregnant with consequence; the meaning of this meeting imbued with a new gravity.

"If you so desire your plan's fruition, why come forth in the guise of a humble supplicant when such a power is already in your hands?" The spirit intones with growing estimation of this human. The mortal considers the object with a contemplative expression before answering.

"Power is little without understanding and I never wished to bind you to it, but rather it is a symbol of my desire. I come before you now as neither master nor servant but as one who would have your support against a common enemy and in return….I..I will give you true power and rank on earth in the kingdom that I shall create. You will be more than just a fleeting shadow or the denizen of some half remembered nightmare and, together, even god shall feel the sting of my indignation." Observing the mortal, the spectre understands the profound nature of this creature's will, that here he can feel the first, tentative motions of a new history being fashioned. Here, in the cold, flickering light, something absolute, irrevocable and powerful has been born. Uriel reflects upon this and knows that their nature is not unalike, thus a concordance will bring great things; things that will inspire heaven and earth to turn away in horror.

"If that is so, then I agree…..let us bear witness to the birth of a new kingdom from nights mantle….. ." Uriel extends slowly one thin hand to the sorcerer. The gesture is not lost and he only hesitates for a moment before forsaking the protective ward of the circle and reaching out to the spirit. Cold, soft flesh closes around bone and for a few moments both peer into the others visage; the mortal's eyes dead and brilliant, like newly fashioned gems set into pallid flesh.

"Then let us begin Uriel………….."

----------------------------------------------------

In another place he reclines between worlds and it is here he finds that which is most coveted. Their embrace is passionate, each seeking the warmth of each other. His hands find her waist as she presses against his chest and, leaning forward slightly, he finds the faint fragrance of sun kissed locks. In these moments of silent embrace something distant, yet familiar stirs in the man's soul and he ponders momentarily what this could be until a slight, wry smile twists his lips; yes, this abiding warmth was called love once and he knew it deeply, just as she knew his. The soft warmth against his neck conjures memories from their past; first meeting, courtship, vows, sharing of love under Luna's pallid light. There in the cool darkness, her hair seemed to capture light in a soft cascade while eyes as clear as the morning sky returned his own soft gaze. Yes, in those moments, his had clasped around her smaller one, they seemed completely indivisible. The gulfs of eternity shrank to nothing in her presence and the world of intrigue, war and blood would fade like a daydream…almost, but never completely. She steps back slightly and meets his eyes; her expression one of both resignation and a slight sadness.

"I know that I can not tempt you from the path you have chosen, for your conviction is great and your labour long. You have changed since those times; you have become fearsome of visage and your intent cruel. You have become a dragon amongst the peoples of the earth, but I am not jaded." She smiles softly and raises her hand to his cheek, gently brushing aside his locks.

"For though you have become something more than what you were; you wings cast a shadow, your flesh few can pierce and the night has become your kingdom, I perceive something more. I see past your guise and that which I love still abides there, steeped in shadow. If you continue with your endeavour, please do not so hastily forsake that which once knew such love and perhaps we shall meet again one day in heaven's soft embrace." She leans forward and kisses her love. He returns this and for but a moment they share an embrace which both have desired. Behind closed eyes, he can feel the sting of first tears. He wishes that this moment may endure but she fades and his arms are empty; the testament to her existence a small flurry of soft feathers, as if the angels themselves have borne her away to heaven. Crimson tears stain his face as he lifts a hand and feels the soft white shapes tumble between his fingers. The sound of soft weeping becomes deeper, more pronounced until it is a harsh inhuman sound then finally a scream that turns the world to blood, shadow and the flutter of a million wings………

With a slight start he awakens. Raising cold pale fingers, he brushes silver locks aside and dabs at his cheeks. His fingers return bloody and crimson eyes narrow at this most unusual display. He recalls that dream; a dream of another time and the seed of this war as he sits enthroned. Wreathed in aristocratic finery, the lord of Castlevania detects a ripple of familiar energy advancing beyond the room's heavy doors. At last the threshold is breached and a figure approaches with deliberate paces. They meet his gaze and he recalls the indignation borne in their blood; the conviction of centuries past held in their eyes. He marks their approach with fascination before rising; the ornate glass he held seems like thunder as it explodes on the floor. Their eyes meet and he knows the absolute truth of this conflict. Time cannot understand sorrow and sorrow cannot understand time.

The End.

------------------------------------------------------------

This is my second Castlevania fan fic which tries to explore the intricacies of Dracula and Death's alliance, while also considering the thoughts that eventually compelled Mathias to instigate his plot and war of vengeance. To this end, I've tried to shine some light on the continuing role Elisabetha would play in the long centuries of the count's life as the basis of his desire. As always flames, questions and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated.

Yours sincerely

Sorcerer's Familiar.


End file.
